The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFive thousand poundsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Five thousand poundsAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: July 14, 2023 [eBook #71192]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1886*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Five thousand poundsAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: July 14, 2023 [eBook #71192]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1886
Title: Five thousand pounds
Author: Agnes Giberne
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: July 14, 2023 [eBook #71192]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1886
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAP.
I. MY COTTAGE HOME
II. NEWS
III. THE MONEY
IV. CONGRATULATIONS
V. FIRST PURCHASES
VI. AN ALARM
VII. TO GO OR TO STAY
VIII. THE NEW HOUSE
IX. NOTHING TO DO
X. MR. SIMMONS
XI. GOING HOME
XII. AT LAST
XIII. A DAMP DWELLING
XIV. CHRISTMAS
XV. TROUBLE
XVI. SCENES
XVII. THE END
UP to the age of fourteen I think I spent as happy a life as any child in any cottage home in England. There is many a cottage which is no "home" at all, in the true sense of the word, notwithstanding those pretty words of poetry about—
"The cottage homes of England,By thousands in her plains;"
"The cottage homes of England,By thousands in her plains;"
"The cottage homes of England,By thousands in her plains;"
"The cottage homes of England,
By thousands in her plains;"
but ours was one.
It stood on a bit of country road, with three or four other cottages, close outside a biggish town. We had a large pond in front, and lots of trees beyond and on both sides of the pond; and the shadows of the trees used to look very pretty on a summer evening, when the light from the sun came creeping through them with a red glow like firelight. The water would catch the glow, till it was all one sheet of brightness, and the trees seemed bending down to look at their own likenesses below, for every branch and twig and leaf might be seen there, pictured.
Sometimes a breeze would ruffle the surface, and then there were little wavelets, with red on one side and grey on the other, and the pictured branches and leaves had a snaky sort of movement in and out of one another. And if a duck swam across, leaving its little track, that made another break in the smooth picture.
I used to stand and watch these things, and wonder at the ripples and the brightness. Sometimes I asked father the "why" of this or that, for I was an inquisitive child, but he always said, "Don't know, my girl," and went off to his pipe; so it was not of much use to ask him. If I put the same questions to mother, she commonly said, "How can I tell? Don't bother!" and that shut me up.
And if I went to grannie, she would say, "Because God made it so, Phœbe." This was all right and true, but I would have liked to understand a little more about the beautiful things which God has made. I used to wonder then, and I often wonder now, how it is that people care so little to look into such matters.
Well, but I must go on about my home, the only home I ever knew in childish years.
It was a pretty cottage. Clematis grew over one side, and in front there was a rose-tree, which used to flower all the summer through and on almost into the winter. The roses were small and white, but how they did cluster! People often stopped to remark on them. We had a nice piece of flower-garden in front, stuffed full of sweet-williams and pinks, and such plain old-fashioned plants: none the less pretty for being old-fashioned, however. At the back there was a tiny strip of kitchen-garden too. The front door had a porch, and honeysuckle grew thickly all over it, with long trailing pieces, which had to be lifted and put aside when we went out or in.
Grannie had lived in this cottage all through her married life, and when her husband died she lived on there still, with her only boy,—my father,—working for him, and making him work for her.
Father's work was in the building firm of Johnstone & Co. We thought Mr. Johnstone a very grand person in our little town, because he was so rich, and wore such a thick gold watch-chain, and had such a big red stone in the ring on his little finger. But I dare say he would not have been thought so much of elsewhere. He was not a gentleman, and he very seldom spoke a kind word to any of his men, as I am sure he would have done if he had been a true gentleman.
Father was not a skilled workman, but he had good wages nevertheless, for he was steady and trustworthy.
He was always kind to us children. I never knew him anything else in those days. Sometimes he would speak up sharp in a passing way, but he never knocked us about or stormed at us, as I have seen men do with their children.
He was not a religious sort of man. He went to Church most Sundays, in the afternoon, to please grannie, and sat and nodded through the sermon. He would have done a good deal to please her, though he wouldn't do one thing which she wanted, and that was to leave his bed early enough for the morning Service—no, not even for her sake.
No, father was not religious. If he had been—not merely religious outwardly, but really serving God in his heart—I think our life after might have been different from what it was. It always seems to me, looking back, that poor father was like a fine ship at sea, without any rudder. For a while it may float along quietly enough, on a calm sea and with a fair wind. But let the wind change and grow strong, and it is carried helplessly away and cast upon the rocks. If he had had the rudder, yes, and the Pilot on board, the breeze would have been only for his good. But he had not.
I have many a time had this thought about poor father. He was such a kind man in those days, and so steady. He liked his pipe and his glass of beer, it is true, but he didn't go to excess with either, and he loved his home and seldom went to the public. He brought his wages straight home to grannie always; for it was grannie who managed things, not mother. They were very unlike each other. Grannie liked work, and mother couldn't abide it. Grannie could not be happy without everything neat and nice about her, and mother did not care how anything was. Grannie had always managed everything before father married, and she kept it on after he married. Mother did not mind. She liked to be saved trouble.
Mother was a pretty little woman, with blue eyes and a nice smile. But she was always untidy. Even grannie could not cure her of her untidiness. I don't know what the house would have been like, except for grannie: but that made all the difference. She never let a speck of dust lie anywhere, and she was a beautiful cook.
Grannie set herself early to train me into her ways, and I think I took after her naturally. "You know, Phœbe," she used to say sometimes, "if anything happens to me, it will all come upon you. Somehow, your mother doesn't seem to have the knack; and if somebody else beside her didn't keep things straight, there would be a terrible muddle. Maybe she would not mind, but your father would, and it's a terrible thing to live in a muddle. So see you do your best to learn."
I did do my best, and I think she found me an apt scholar. By fourteen years old I could turn-out tidy little dinners without any difficulty, and I was a capital hand at cleaning up; and as for sewing and darning, I don't really think there was another girl in the place who could have surpassed me.
I was a good deal more grannie's child than mother's. Mother cared most for Asaph. There were only two of us, and Asaph was two years younger than me. He was very like mother in looks and ways, little and pretty, with blue eyes and curly hair, and a sort of easy soft way of doing things. But he was not so easy as not to like having his own way, and he didn't take it softly if anybody crossed him. He loved to lie in bed too, and he hated lessons and work. And mother indulged him right and left. Grannie seldom meddled about Asaph, for it almost always raised a storm if she did.
Grannie was getting on in years, and her hair was white, but she still looked hearty and strong, and was very active and ready to help in many ways. She was religious and no mistake. It was religiousness of the right sort with her—not only going to Church and saying her prayers, as with some people; and not only talking good, as with some other people. She did go to Church of course, and I never knew a more regular Church-goer than she; and she did say her prayers regularly too. And I don't mean either that she could not talk if occasion served. We can generally speak now and then of the things we love best. But her religion didn't consist only in Church-going or in talk. She lived altogether to God and for God, and I don't really think she ever took a single step without considering first whether it was what God would have her do.
I REMEMBER so well one particular Sunday evening. It is not surprising that I should remember that Sunday evening, for it came just before a great event in our lives.
We had been to Church twice as usual, Grannie and I. Mother never would go in the morning. She said she had too much to do—though really it was not she who did the work. Father lay in bed late, and Asaph followed his example. Grannie and I always got up particularly early on Sunday morning, that we might have everything straight in time for the Service. Grannie always gave father a good cold dinner on Sunday. She had been a servant in a rich gentleman's family when she was young, and she used to say that if the gentleman and his family always had cold Sunday dinners, for the sake of saving Sunday work to their servants, she didn't see why we shouldn't do the same, for our own sake. We were not like the neighbours in this, and father sometimes grumbled a little in a good-tempered way. But he had been brought up to it from boyhood, and the dinners were always so nice that he could not say much. The only things ever spoilt were the potatoes and greens, which mother used to have in charge to cook, as they of course had to be hot. I fancy she often went out for a gossip with the neighbours, and forgot them. If mother would have gone to Church, grannie would have stayed at home, or made me stay at home, to do what was needed. But grannie always said she would not consent to have two kept away from God's House, where one was enough. And grannie could be very firm, when once she had made up her mind.
So we had been to Church in the morning, and then we had all had a nice dinner of beautiful cold pie, good enough for the Lord Mayor's table, and a sort of cold custardy pudding with jam and pastry round. It looked grand, and father was very fond of it, but it did not cost much money, though it did cost a deal of time and trouble in the making. Grannie never grudged time or trouble, however.
In the afternoon we had been to Church again, and father and Asaph with us. Father was a very respectable-looking man in his Sunday suit, and Asaph was such a pretty boy. He looked more like ten than twelve years old, though. Mother would not go with us, for she had toothache. She was a good deal given to toothache, but I think it came oftenest on a Sunday.
The sermon that afternoon was about Temptation. I often thought after, how strange it was that Mr. Scott should have preached it just then.
"Lead us not into temptation" was the text. Mr. Scott spoke a great deal about the meaning of the word Temptation. He said it had two quite different meanings—one was, enticing to evil, and the other was, testing or trying. He said that God never "tempted" any man in the first sense—enticing to do wrong. But he said also that God very often tempted us in the second sense—trying our faith, testing our strength, putting a pull on the rope, as it were, to show how heavy a weight it could bear.
Then Mr. Scott talked about different ways in which God "tempts" people—sometimes by sending sorrow; sometimes by giving pain; sometimes by putting them into difficult circumstances; sometimes, and Mr. Scott made a good deal of this, by letting them have all they most like and wish for. I think that part of the sermon struck me most. It seemed so strange to think of happiness being temptation. But I saw grannie nodding her head with a pleased look, so I was sure he must be right.
Mr. Scott was a good loving-hearted old man, and he was what is called an able preacher. Everybody in the place loved him, for he was a friend to everybody—so far, at least, as people would let him be.
I could not make out whether father was listening to the sermon. He never did as a rule, but used to settle himself into his corner and fall into a half-doze. Sometimes grannie would poke him gently to rouse him, and he would give a great start and make believe to pay attention, but it never lasted long.
This day, however, he really did listen. For in the evening, when we had had our tea, and father and grannie and I were sitting outside the door, as we often did of a summer evening, with the pond in front glistening, and the ducks swimming to and fro, father said—
"I didn't hold with Mr. Scott this afternoon. If good times are a temptation, they're a rare sort to most folks. I think it's trouble that makes one go wrong. I shouldn't mind having a little more of the other, for my part."
"Times aren't bad with us, Miles," said grannie.
"Maybe not, but I shouldn't mind 'em being better," said father. "I shouldn't mind a bit more of holiday now and then—and to take things easily and have less to do."
It was not at all astonishing that father should have made these remarks just before what was coming, for he very often did make them. A week seldom passed without his saying such things.
"I shouldn't wonder if a time of ease and idleness was one of the sharpest temptations God ever sends," grannie said quietly.
Father said, "Now, mother!" in a protesting sort of way.
"I shouldn't," she said, quite firm, and looking him in the face. "Satan has a deal better chance with idle folks than with busy ones, Miles."
"Ah, so you've told me many a time," said father. "And maybe you're right. I don't say but what you are. I'm not an idle sort of fellow myself, by any manner of means. But I don't say I wouldn't like more ease. And as for calling pleasure and riches and that sort, temptation, I don't see it—I don't really see it."
"No," said grannie. "There's many a thing a man can't see, till God gives him sight."
"And you think you've longer sight than me, mother?" says he.
She looked up, with a smile which I thought quite beautiful—looked up, not at him, nor at the trees, but away and above and beyond, as it were.
"Yes," she said; "I've longer sight than you, my dear. I've sight to see up and up into heaven itself, and you haven't. It makes a deal of difference."
"Bless me, mother, don't talk like that," says father, in a sort of hurry. "It sounds as if you was going to die this very night."
"And if I was, I'm ready," said she. "It wouldn't be grief to me to hear the chariot wheels coming near."
But I was sitting close by, and I turned and said, "Grannie, please don't want to go just yet."
"No," she said, "I'm willing to wait."
"Well, you go beyond common folks, somehow," father said. "There ain't many that care to talk about dying as cool as you do."
"No," she said. "And I couldn't either, if death was to me what it is to many a one, a plunge into the outer darkness, away from the smile of God. That would be awful."
"Well, well, we needn't talk about it now," father said, fidgeting. "You're the best woman that ever lived, though you don't think yourself so. But all the world can't be like you."
And he got up, and hummed a tune, and plucked a bit of sweet-william, and walked about; so grannie could not say any more.
The next morning broke like other mornings, and we began the day as usual. Father went to his work, and Asaph to school, which he was nearly done with. This was washing morning, so I was very busy. Mother said her tooth ached still, and she did not seem to think she could do anything. Pain always upset her, and she cried over it half the morning, and went out in the garden and chatted with Mrs. Dickenson most of the other half.
Mrs. Dickenson was our left-hand neighbour, a cleanly thrifty sort of body, but a great talker. She never could resist a gossip, though she worked hard between whiles. Grannie did not like her very much. She had only one child.
In the middle of the day father came back. That was quite unexpected. He always took his dinner with him, and ate it at the works. Grannie used to put it up for him nicely in a piece of paper, with a clean red handkerchief outside. Sometimes it was only bread and cheese, but more often she managed for him to have a slice of cold meat too.
This Monday, instead of staying away as usual, he came home. Our first thought was that he must be ill; but he was walking fast and looking quite red in the face, so it did not seem like illness. Then we fancied that perhaps he had got into trouble and been turned off; but no, he looked too pleased. I had never seen father look so pleased and delighted before. He came hurrying up to us, as we waited at the cottage door, for mother had called us all together in a fright, to see what was wrong, the moment she caught sight of father walking along the road. He hurried up, as I say, and seized Asaph, and gave him a sort of twirl round, like a man in such spirits that he scarce knew what to do with himself. And then he said—
"Guess what's happened?"
"I know," mother said. "You are going to have higher wages."
Father chuckled, and said, "No."
"It's a half-holiday at the works," said grannie.
"No, it isn't. I got leave to run round for five minutes, that's all."
"Then what has happened?" cried mother, and we all chimed in. Grannie was the quietest, and I think she looked a little anxious.
"You want to know, don't you?" says father, chucking Asaph under the chin; "don't you?" and he chucked me too. "Well, I'll tell you. I'm to have five thousand pounds!"
Grannie looked as if she fancied him gone mad. Mother shrieked and clapped her hands, and Asaph copied her.
"Five thousand pounds!" father said again.
"Who's given it to you, my dear?" asked grannie.
"Nobody. It's left to me in a will. Old Andrew Morison is dead, and he has been storing up his money for years, and he quarrelled with his son just at last, and willed it all away to me. Think of that! Five thousand pounds, Sue! Think of that! Five thousand pounds, mother!"
"It's the temptation," said grannie very low, and I heard her sigh.
"It's just lovely," cried mother. "Why, I can have a silk dress."
"Six, if you like," said father. "And Phœbe, too."
I don't know what I said. I felt all in a maze.
"Miles," said grannie, in a trembling voice, and she laid her hand on his arm. "It's a solemn charge for you. Don't you think we ought just to kneel down, and thank God, and ask Him to teach us how to spend it? It'll do us no manner of good without His blessing alongside."
"So you can, mother," said he, all in a hurry, giving her a kiss. "So you can. I'm due back at the works, and mustn't wait. We'll talk it over in the evening, by-and-by. And Sue shall have her silk dress as soon as ever she likes. It makes a man feel all dazed to think of! Five thousand pounds!"
And he was gone. Mother ran away to tell the neighbours, and grannie took me upstairs into the little room which she and I had together. She didn't make but a short prayer, only it was one which I never could forget.
"Who told you about it, Miles?" asked grannie at tea-time.
Father had come back, and we all felt very much excited still, as was only natural, I suppose. Grannie looked sad, I thought, but she was the only one to seem so. I had had a restless feeling on me all day, which made it difficult, to settle to work. I don't think I should have settled to it at all, but for grannie's being so bent upon everything going on just the same as usual. She would not abate one jot of cleaning and washing and scouring for herself or for me. But mother did nothing whatever the whole day, except stand at the door, and talk to the neighbours. The news spread quickly, and numbers came to ask what it meant. Some seemed really pleased for us, but they were few. The greater number, as far as I could tell from scraps of talk which I heard in going to and fro, were more inclined to be jealous, and to wonder why such good fortune should have come to us and not to them.
And at tea-time grannie put the question,—"Who told you about it, Miles?"
"Why, it was the lawyer who had the making of the will—a Mr. Carver. It was him and young Mr. Johnstone," father said. "The lawyer came over by train from Lanston this morning, and he told Mr. Johnstone first, and then they sent for me and told me. Mr. Johnstone said I was a lucky man, and he shook hands with me—first time he ever thought of doing that."
"Young Mr. Johnstone isn't near so stuck-up as his father," mother said.
"He's more of a gentleman," added grannie; "that's why."
"There's room for him to be," said father. "Well, he told me I was a lucky man, and Mr. Carver talked a deal. I was so dazed at the news, I didn't half take in all he said. Something about saving and investing and stocks,—I don't know what it was."
"I think you'd be wise, Miles, to ask him to say it again, and to take his advice," said grannie. "He knows more of such things than we do."
"Oh, I'm not so sure," says father, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I'm not at all so sure of that, mother. He's a lawyer, and he'd like to have a finger in the pie, I don't doubt. But I don't want any of my five thousand pounds to stick to his fingers. He's too sleek and smooth-spoken by half for me. I don't trust him."
"Then you'll ask Mr. Scott," said grannie.
"I'll think it over," says father. "No need to be in such a hurry. Time enough to make up our minds."
"I'll tell you one thing that is on my mind," said grannie, speaking slowly, and looking at us all round in turn. "What about the poor fellow who was expecting five thousand pounds from his father, and who hasn't got it?"
"Jem Morison! Ah, poor wretch, yes," says father in an indifferent sort of way.
"He shouldn't have offended his father," said mother. "But I am glad he did."
"It's sorrowful work for him," said grannie.
"Well, he took his choice," father said. "He married against his father's will, and now his wife's sickly, and they've got twins, and he is in bad health, and can't work. Oh, I dare say he's sorry enough. Most people are when they've taken their own way and have to suffer for it. 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,' you know. But there's another saying quite as true, and that is, 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.' If young Morison hadn't gone against his father, we shouldn't have this fine windfall. I declare, mother, I don't think you half take in how good it is. Five thousand pounds! Why it'll do anything! Sue is going to be a lady now."
"Fifty thousand pounds wouldn't make a lady of one who wasn't so in herself," said grannie quietly. "Wearing a silk dress is not being a lady, Miles, and you know that as well as I do. I've no wish to see Sue a lady, nor you a gentleman. All I want is to see you both living for God in that station of life where He has put you."
"Well now, mother, you won't go for to say it isn't God who has given us this five thousand pounds, I suppose," says father sharply.
"Yes," she said, "I know He has, and I thank Him for it. But it's temptation, Miles."
Father laughed out loud.
"It's temptation," repeated grannie. "It may be very sore temptation, Miles. I think I'd almost sooner have seen you with temptation of the other sort,—with having too little, instead of too much—if God had willed to send it. I'd have feared less for your being led astray by it."
"Now, mother, you do take a very melancholical view of affairs, and that I must say," protested father. "And what's more, I don't think it's kind. Just because something good has come for once in our lives, you must needs croak about it, and wish it was something bad instead."
"Grannie would like us all to sit down and cry," said mother.
She and father often called her "grannie" just as we children did.
"No, I don't want that, Sue," said grannie. "But I'd have you thankful to God, my dear, and I'd have your eyes open to danger—that's all. And there's one more word I must say, though I'm afraid you won't like it. Seems to me, Miles,—"
Grannie made a stop. "Seems what?" asked father.
"Suppose we were in the place of that poor young Morison, and he was in your place—how do you think you would feel?"
"How? Why, I should count myself an uncommon fool, to have thrown away five thousand pounds for the sake of a pretty face," says father.
"I shouldn't wonder but you'd feel too you had a sort of right to the money, and that the other man hadn't any right to it at all," grannie said.
Father burst into another loud laugh, but it wasn't a happy or a merry laugh.
"Oh, that's what you're driving at, is it?" said he. "No, no, grannie—no nonsense of that sort for me. I'll keep the money fast when I get it. As Morison has sown, he may reap. He's nothing to me, nor I to him."
"He and you are cousins born," grannie said. "Your father's father and the mother of the old man that's dead were brother and sister."
"So much the better for me," father answered. "If I hadn't come next in blood-relationship, old Morison wouldn't have willed the money to me. But it's little enough we owe to any of them in the past, you know, mother. Why, dear me, the Morisons have counted themselves a deal too grand for many a year to have to do with such as we."
"The more reason to be ready to show them kindness now," says grannie.
Father repeated the word "kindness" in a rough sort of way. "Why, you don't really think," says he, "that any living man would be such a born ass as to give up five thousand pounds of his own free will!"
"If he saw it right! Yes, there have been such things done," grannie said, with a kindling in her eyes. "But I would be content if you would give him half, Miles."
Father brought down his clenched fist on the table, with a bang which made the cups and saucers rattle.
"I'll not do it," he said. "I'll not give him one half, nor one quarter, nor one tenth—no, nor one shilling of the money. It's mine, and I'll keep it. Why, bless me, the world would be upside down altogether, if such notions as yours got followed out. You've a sort of craze, grannie, with your religious ways, and that is how it is. But you needn't hug this notion, nor speak of it to anybody. Morison is not going to have one shilling of the money."
THE next few days were very stirring. People were always coming in and out, to talk over our "piece of good fortune." Neighbours kept dropping in to congratulate us, and to ask particulars, and to find something more to gossip about. And mother liked nothing better than to talk with everybody about what had happened, and to boast of all that she and father meant to do with the five thousand pounds, as soon as ever it came to us.
"Of course you won't stay any longer in this little cottage," one said. I heard her, and I thought the words were said sneeringly. I didn't like the person who said them—Mrs. Raikes, the wife of a tailor who lived near. But mother took up the idea, and could talk of nothing else for hours. Grannie said quietly—"If you go, you and Miles, I don't go with you;" and she said no more.
I think we all expected the money to come in one or two days, and it disappointed us to hear that we might have to wait a good while. Young Mr. Johnstone looked in one morning, and he was very agreeable and kind. Mother asked him how soon we should have the money, and he said the lawyers were not bound to pay it in less than a year. "I dare say you won't have to wait quite so long," he said, "but lawyers never hurry themselves. And meantime, it isn't at all impossible that the other party may dispute the will, which might cause further delays."
Mother pouted, and was very vexed to think of having to wait. She had so set her heart on having a silk dress directly. But grannie seemed rather pleased than otherwise to hear of delay, for she thought it would give us all time to come to our senses.
Another day, to our great amazement, the Johnstones' carriage stopped at our door. It was a very big heavy carriage, and the coachman and footman were big heavy men, with powdered hair, and a great deal of red and yellow about them, and dangling cords and tassels. I always thought the carriage must be a little like the Lord Mayor's coach. Lord Wheatstone's carriage, which sometimes passed our door, didn't make half so fine a show, for it was plain and dark, and the coachman and footman wore plain dark liveries too—only there was a coronet painted on the door, and the horses were such splendid spirited creatures. I liked the dark carriage best, but father called it shabby beside the Johnstones' carriage.
Well, as I say, the Johnstones stopped at our gate, and mother was quite in a flurry, and went hurrying into the garden, with her cap all on one side. Mrs. Johnstone did not get out, for she was so extremely stout that moving was a great trouble to her. She was dressed in bright ruby-coloured velvet, and a jacket to match, and she had a sweeping straw-coloured ostrich feather on her bonnet, and yellow kid gloves. It looked grand, but I could not quite admire the red and yellow together, though mother thought them lovely. Mrs. Johnstone kept her talking for some minutes, and seemed to think a deal of our "good fortune," as she called it. Mother's head was quite turned, and she could think and talk of nothing for the rest of the day but velvets and silks and feathers. I suppose that sort of taste is catching. I remember looking at my print dress, and thinking how much I should like a pretty new frock. And just after doing so, I caught grannie's eye, and she said—
"Feathers don't make the bird, my dear."
"I do like pretty things, grannie," I said.
"So do I, Phœbe," she answered. "But nothing ever looks pretty out of its right place."
"Would a nice new frock for me be out of its right place?" I asked.
"No, not a nice one, perhaps," she said—"if it was the right way of spending the money. But a smart one would. Don't be easy taken in, my girl. If Mrs. Johnstone was a true lady, she wouldn't be driving about in that dress."
"Wouldn't she?" I said.
Grannie laughed, and said—"Think of Mrs. Scott now, Phœbe. Would she?"
"O no," I said. "But then Mrs. Scott always does dress so quiet."
"Well, think of Lady Wheatstone. You've seen her pass, many a time. Would she?"
"No," I said. "But then it isn't her way to put on such smart things. I suppose she doesn't like them."
"That's just it," says grannie. "She don't like them, and Mrs. Scott don't like them, and if Mrs. Johnstone was a true lady she wouldn't like them either. I don't say but what she may be a nice enough person in other ways, if she does make mistakes in her dress. But they are mistakes, Phœbe. That red velvet, with all the smart trimmings and the yellow feather atop, would do well enough, maybe, if she was going to a Queen's drawing-room, or a Parliament opening, or something of that sort, but they are not fit for driving about in a little place like this. It's just as out of place for her, as if I was to go trudging about in the mud with a green silk dress on."
Mother had been talking about buying a green silk dress for herself that very morning. But grannie had not heard her; if she had, she would have taken right good care not to say words which should seem like blaming a mother to her child—and I would not tell grannie.
Another day our clergyman, Mr. Scott, came. He was an elderly man, with silver hair, and a thoughtful way of speaking, and bright eyes which seemed to look one through. Father was at home when he called. Mother slipped away into the back garden, when she saw him in the distance, for somehow mother never much cared for Mr. Scott. But grannie did love him, and look up to him. She made him sit down in the best chair, and looked as pleased as possible to have him there.
Of course the five thousand pounds were soon spoken of. Mr. Scott told father first how glad he was to hear the news, and how nice it was for us all. He said it in such a kind way, that father was quite pleased. And then Mr. Scott asked father what were his plans.
"Well, I don't just exactly know," father said. "I'm meaning to take a bit of a holiday for one thing, and I did think it would be nice to have a bigger cottage than this: but mother says she'll stick by the old place, and I'm loth to part from her; so we'll wait a while. I've a mind to get some tidy furniture, though, and my wife has a great notion of a silk dress. And we'll have a trip to the sea some fine day."
Mr. Scott listened to all this, and smiled, and didn't seem to think of blaming anybody or anything. I thought grannie was a little disappointed. But presently, somehow, he was talking quietly to father about investing the money, and asking him what he meant to do. For of course five thousand pounds could not be left to lie about, he said, and it was a large sum to put into a county bank. Suppose the bank should fail. Such things did happen.
"Mr. Carver did say something about investments," father said. "But I don't know as I paid much heed. You see, sir, he is a lawyer, and they do say lawyers have a wonderful trick of keeping back some of the money that slips through their fingers;—though, for the matter of that, so have most people."
"You cannot expect them to work without payment," said Mr. Scott. "A lawyer has his living to get, as well as any other man. Of course there are honest and dishonest lawyers; but Mr. Carver is one of the honest sort. He is an honourable man, and you may quite rely on his advice."
Then Mr. Scott talked about different ways of "putting out money," as he called it. I heard such words as "stocks," and "shares," and "railways," and "interest." Father exclaimed presently,—"Only four per cent! That wouldn't be much."
"It would bring you in a nice little income of two hundred a year," said Mr. Scott. "Better have that secure, than aim higher and perhaps in the end lose it all."
"Why, Bill Jenkins told me I'd ought to have ten per cent at least," said father. "And that 'ud be an income of five hundred a year. I was counting on five hundred, so as we could live easy."
Mr. Scott shook his head. "Too much," he said. "Ten per cent is far too high for safety, Murdock. Take my advice, and don't risk your capital where such high interest is given. Four per cent, is likely to be safe. You might even go safely as high as five per cent perhaps, but that is doubtful."
Father did not much take to the notion. He had been talking so big, and making so much of the thought of five hundred pounds a year, that two hundred a year seemed small in comparison.
DAYS went by, and still the money did not come. Father grew chafed and restless waiting for it, and mother was in a state of constant ups and downs. Every morning we were keeping watch on the post, and every morning we were disappointed afresh.
"It's no manner of use to be so impatient," grannie said sometimes. "You know right well, Miles, that the lawyers are not bound to pay you short of a twelvemonth, and nobody thinks they'll do it yet awhile."
"Then they ought," father made answer very hotly: for he was getting hasty and not near so pleasant in his ways as he used to be. "We ought to have the money now directly. Not pay for a twelvemonth, indeed! It's my money, not theirs. What right have they to keep us waiting?"
But of course we had to wait all the same, whether he was vexed or no.
It was wonderful how folks ran after us in those days. I had not known before that we had one quarter so many friends. The neighbours were for ever dropping in to talk of our good fortune, and mother seemed such a favourite with them all. I could not help thinking that the money had a good deal to do with her being so, else why should they have cared so little about her before we heard of the five thousand pounds? Grannie felt the same about it that I did, I could see plainly enough, but mother did not. She took it all for real, and was delighted.
A great many asked us out to Sunday dinners, and did their best to give good fare. We hadn't been used to going out on a Sunday to dine, for grannie had always set her face against the custom, and father had only once in a way done it. But now he said it would seem stuck-up and unneighbourly to refuse, just when this "windfall," as he called it, had come to us. He said it would look as if we counted ourselves too grand for the neighbours.
Grannie told him the real question lay deeper; for it wasn't a question of giving offence to one or two people, who ought to know us better than to be so easily offended, but of breaking God's holy day. But father was not to be persuaded, and he and mother went out Sunday after Sunday, and took Asaph with them. And, somehow, after father had been out pleasuring all the afternoon, he did not seem inclined to go to Church in the evening, as he had been always used to do; and one day and another he found some excuse for staying away. I could see that it was a great grief to grannie.
I did not go to these dinners with father and mother, but kept grannie company at home. It was grannie's wish, and mother did not care, for Asaph was her favourite. I don't think I always quite liked being the one left behind, and yet I should not have been happy doing anything else. But if I did not like it, I took care that grannie should not see what I felt. She was sorry enough already about the break-up of our old quiet Sundays.
One day father came in, chuckling and laughing, and carrying a big bundle under his arm.
"What d'you think I've got now?" says he. "O Miles! has the money come at last?" shrieked mother.
"No, it hasn't," said he. "Why, you don't think surely that I'd be carrying five thousand pounds rolled up into a bundle like this! No, it isn't the money, but it's something. And it don't so much matter now, if the money should be longer coming. They'll trust me down at Trowgood's for anything I want. Trowgood himself came up to me in the street, and told me so, as civil as could be. So I went straight off with him, and did some shopping."
"I don't like Mr. Trowgood, and I never did," said grannie. "He's a deep one, Miles."
"Maybe so, maybe no," says father. "Deep or shallow, that won't keep me from using his goods, if so be they suit my wants. And nobody could speak more civil than he did, anyway. Look here, Sue."
Father untied the bundle, while we all stood round. I saw grannie shake her head softly to herself, once or twice, as if she didn't like it at all. But we children could not help thinking the big brown-paper parcel very delightful, for we had not seen many such in our lives. And when it was rolled open, mother quite screamed with delight at the first thing her eyes fell on. For there on the top lay a quantity of smooth bright shining green silk. I almost thought mother would say it was too bright and shining for her. But she did not. She only laughed and clapped her hands, and seemed half beside herself.
"That's the thing now, isn't it?" says father. "Green was the colour you wanted, Sue, and I've chosen the smartest I could see in all the shop, so as you should look your best. You'll have to get it made up quick, and we'll have some folks in to dinner, to look at you. Why, I shall hardly know you, I declare, nor anybody else either. See here! I've bought a real coral necklace for Phœbe. Isn't that pretty, my girl? And here's a cap for Asaph. And I haven't forgotten you, mother. I knew you wouldn't like a green dress, and I had my doubts if you'd wear a silk; so I've chose some good black stuff,—merino, Trowgood says, and the very best they have. You'll wear that to please me."
"Why, it looks like mourning," mother said.
"Grannie never will wear anything but black for her best, and I wanted to get what she'd use," says father.
Grannie was feeling the merino between her finger and thumb.
"It's beautiful stuff," she said—"the best I ever had. And I'm much obliged to you for thinking of me, Miles. It's like your kind heart. But I'd sooner you had waited till the money was come. Supposing it wasn't to come after all, how would you pay for these things?"
"Oh, nonsense, mother,—bother!" said he. "The money's sure."
"Maybe so," said she. "But I'll wait to have my dress made up till it does come."
"I shan't wait," mother said, tossing her head back.
"I shall," grannie said. "I'm obliged to you, Miles, but you'll please to remember that I'm not going to have anything else got for me at all, till the money has come. I don't think it's right. I would send this back straight to Trowgood's, if I wasn't afraid of vexing you."
"It would vex me too," father said. "That's a nice sort of gratitude, I do think. It would vex me, mother, and what's more, Trowgood never takes back cut goods. So you'll just have to be content, and if you're a wise woman you'll get it made up, and wear it when Sue wears her green silk."
"But haven't you got anything for yourself, Miles?" asked mother, looking as pleased as a child over a new toy.
"Haven't I?" said father. "Dear me, yes, a whole new suit. It isn't made up yet, but it soon will be. And I've got a brand new sofa for the parlour, and a clock for the mantel-shelf,—cheap enough, but Trowgood says it'll go like a twenty-guinea clock. Oh, we'll have things smart now, and no mistake. Anything else you want me to get, Sue?"
"I'd like a new cap," mother said. "I saw a beauty to-day, in Trowgood's window, all over pink bows. And I do want a new bonnet for Sundays. I'm sure I should go to Church ever so much more regular, if I had a decent bonnet to show myself in. Mine's got washed strings, and the flowers are all faded. And wouldn't it be nice if we were to get a new carpet for the parlour, and put up the old one in a bedroom? The pattern's all trodden out, and it never was anything but a dingy fright. I should like something nice and bright,—like Mrs. Raikes' carpet. I don't see why she's to have a prettier carpet than us, now we've got five thousand pounds."
"We haven't got it yet, Sue," says grannie.
"Well, we're going to have it," mother answered. "And we may just as well get the carpet. I don't see why we should wait."
"Nor I neither," father said.
"I do," said grannie, looking at them. "Miles, if you take my advice, you'll do nothing in a hurry."
But father was in no mood for waiting, nor mother either. The new carpet was chosen, and a grand one we children thought it, for there were huge bunches of red and purple flowers and green leaves, on a sort of yellowish ground. The old carpet, which had lasted nearly all through grannie's married life until now, was a real Brussels, and it had only a small brown pattern with a little red in it. The new was not a Brussels, but only a cheap sort of tapestry, which Mr. Trowgood said would wear "next door to a Brussels." And the bunches of flowers were so big, that only four whole ones could get into our little bit of a parlour. And the odd part of the matter was, that the room seemed all at once to have grown much smaller. I didn't know why then, though I am sure now that it was because the pattern was too large for the size of the room. Small-patterned carpets and papers always make a room seem bigger. When I asked grannie how she liked it, she only said: "I love the dear old carpet, Phœbe. No new one can ever be what the old one was to me."
Four new chairs with stuffed blue seats and yellow buttons were bought at the same time; and they did smarten up the room wonderfully, there's no denying. The new sofa was blue too, only it did not quite match the chairs. And the clock looked grand on the mantel-shelf, for it had a lot of gilt about it. It went all right for two days, and then it stopped, and wouldn't go any longer. But when father spoke about it, Trowgood said it must have been wrongly wound up, and father was so afraid of vexing him that he didn't complain any more.
Mother got herself the new cap, and a fine new bonnet too, and she spent a good deal of time before the looking-glass, trying them on. And the only thing grannie said about it all to me was: "They must learn, Phœbe. People have to learn by experience. You and I can't help it. Maybe all will come right in the end. But if you want to please me, my dear, you'll not wear the coral necklace yet awhile."
"No, I won't, grannie," I said. "I'll wait till you put on your new gown."
A FEW days later, father suddenly found that all was not quite so sure as he had thought about the five thousand pounds. For the son, who had expected the money, made up his mind to "dispute the will," as it is called. He went to the lawyers, and tried to prove that it was all a mistake, and that the money ought properly to go to him, not us. He wanted to make out that his old father had not been right in the head, at the time that he made the will. If he could show this to be the case, it would of course make all the difference.
I shall never forget seeing father come in, just after hearing that the will was to be disputed. It was Saturday morning, and we were going to have the Jenkinses and the Dickensons and the Raikes' to dinner, and afterwards there was to be an excursion of all of us together to a place called Sunny Point, where we were going to have a sort of picnic tea in some respectable tea-gardens.
There had been quite a struggle, because father was bent on a Sunday dinner to the neighbours, and grannie was set against it. Father was downright angry, and mother cried and fretted because grannie would not give in. Grannie did not say very much, for it wasn't her way to waste words; but she did say she would have nothing to do with the matter, for she couldn't on principle make God's day one of junketing and pleasure. But nothing could be done without her; for mother was a poor cook, and the dinner would just have been a failure altogether, if grannie had not cooked it. Then, when father was vexed and mother upset, grannie quietly asked why it could not be Saturday instead, and offered to do anything they liked for Saturday. And so it was settled.
Grannie and I had been hard at work, for I always helped her, and we had a beautiful dinner nearly ready. Grannie did not like the expense of it all; but having made a stand about the more important matter of Sabbath-breaking, she would not make a stir about this too. So there was to be for once a thorough good turn-out. Grannie had her Sunday dress ready to put on at the last moment, and I had put on mine already, and mother was in the parlour, wearing her new green silk, with bright glass buttons all down the front, and a cap with pink bows. She did look smart, and no mistake; and the blue sofa and chairs and the gay carpet helped to make her still smarter. I peeped in once or twice in the middle of my work, and saw her fidgeting about and making a grand rustling. But somehow it didn't seem like mother. I'd rather have had her as I was used.
Then I was back in the kitchen with grannie: and I was just lifting off a saucepan from the fire when I heard a shriek. It startled me so, that I very nearly dropped the saucepan; and well scalded I should have been if I had.
"Steady, Phœbe," grannie said. "One thing at a time, my dear. Put that down safely. Now go and ask what is the matter. I saw your father come in."
I rushed off to the parlour, and found mother in tears, with her face as red as fire. But father was the worst. I never saw father look so before. The first thought that came into my mind was that a wicked spirit must have got inside him. And though I tried to put the thought away, it came back. Father was talking fast in a loud fierce tone, and it made me tremble. I heard him use a bad word, and that frightened me, for I had never heard him say bad words. Grannie was so particular, and she had brought him up to be the same. He may have been different among other people; but before grannie and with us children, he had always been careful. I suppose he was in such a passion that he hardly knew what he was saying. And I just rushed back to the kitchen, and dragged grannie with me to the parlour.
"What is the matter?" said she, looking at them.
"Matter!" father said, and he turned round upon her, and said the words again, in a fierce sort of way. Grannie went up to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Miles," she said, "you never spoke so before me yet, and you won't again, if you don't want to break your old mother's heart."
"A man can't be always choosing his words," father said roughly, and he shook her hand off. "Here's a nice go! That fellow's setting to work to prove that the old man was mad when he made the will."
"I expected as much," grannie said. "And if they prove it?"
"They can't prove it. I'd defy all England to prove it,—without a pack of lies is to be taken as truth," father said in a passionate way. "The old man was as clear in the head as you or I."
Grannie didn't ask him how he knew this, since he had not seen Andrew Morison for years. She only said: "But if they do prove it?"
"They can't, I tell you. If they did, the money wouldn't come to us. But they can't-they shan't!" And father stamped his foot.
"The money is left to us, and it's ours. It's ours!"
"Maybe it'll be ours by-and-by," grannie said. "I hope it may be, if it's for our good. But it isn't ours yet, Miles, and I should be better satisfied, for my part, if you had waited, and not got all these things."
"I shouldn't," father shouted, seeming as if he wanted to drown everybody's speech except his own. "I shouldn't be better satisfied; and what's more, I shan't stop. The money's sure to come. Old Morison was as clear-headed as yourself, mother, and if there's any right and justice in the land, they'll give it so. It's like Jem Morison's sneaking ways to go and do this. But he'll fail. He'll fail, as sure as my name is Miles Murdock. I hope they'll saddle him with costs too, and serve him out."
"Somebody has to be disappointed, anyway," grannie said. "And it's worse for him than for you: for he's been expecting for years, and you've only thought about it a little while. But the meat'll be spoiling, if I don't go and see to it."
"And, oh dear me! there's the Dickensons coming, and it's half-past twelve, and I've got such a red face," mother said. "O dear me! I wish you hadn't gone and told us until they were gone. What shall we do, if the money don't come after all? You don't really think we shan't have it, do you, Miles?"
"No, I don't," father said shortly; but it was plain he didn't feel easy in his mind.
Grannie and I went back to the kitchen, and she did not abate one jot of care for all that had to be done; but presently she gave a sigh, and said to herself,—"How ever in the world folks can be so silly!"
"Father and mother?" I asked.
"I didn't mean that for you, Phœbe," said she. "It's no place of a child to blame her parents. But it is a want of sense. Supposing the money don't come after all?"
"Wouldn't you be very sorry?" I asked.
"Maybe so," she said. "Five thousand pounds has a tempting sound, and I like things to be easy and plentiful as well as others do. But I do say, and I mean it too, that I'd sooner it should never come at all, than have you all go wrong with its coming."
"But why should we, grannie?" I asked. "Why should we? Lots of folks have money, as much as that and more, and don't go wrong with it."
"True enough," she said. "But it's the sudden riches after being poor that's the danger, Phœbe. It isn't the keeping on with what one's used to. There's many a head been turned, and many a heart gone wrong, with sudden riches. I don't say but what there's grace enough to keep one through the danger, if we'll seek it—if we'll ask it, Phœbe."
And I knew she meant that father and mother were not thinking of danger, and were not asking to be kept through it.
Dinner had soon to be dished up and taken in. Grannie changed her dress in a hurry, for father would not have been happy without. The Dickensons and all the rest were come, and our little parlour was just stuffed full. I saw the neighbours eyeing mother's green silk; and one or two of them made faces at one another about it on the sly, and I thought they were jealous. But they need not have been, if they had known how we were thinking about that silk dress, supposing the money should not come! Mrs. Dickenson asked mother where she had got it; and Mrs. Jenkins wanted to know how much she had paid by the yard; and Mrs. Raikes fingered it and said she knew of better to be had at a less price. And I did not think all this was quite mannerly, somehow; but mother seemed to like it, and she became quite merry.
But father had a gloomy look, and I saw that he could not forget what he had heard. Just as we were sitting down to dinner, he spied me and said—
"Where is your necklace, Phœbe?"
"I didn't put it on, father," I said, getting red in the face.
"Then go and put it on this minute, Phœbe," he said angrily.
I could not help trembling a little, and I only just managed to get out the words,—"Grannie said—"
"I don't care what grannie said, nor anybody else neither. Go and put it on,—d'you hear?"
I looked at grannie, and she said, "Do as father tells you, Phœbe."
So I rushed off, and put it on. But I did not like doing so. I had a sort of feeling that it was bought with money which was not ours, and which never might be, and I seemed almost to hate the coral necklace. For I could not bear to see grannie sad, and father so unlike himself.
I don't think any of us enjoyed that Saturday very much, though to be sure there was plenty of talk and of laughing.
THOUGH father had said he did not mean to stop getting things from Trowgood's, because he was so sure the money would come to us, still he thought better of this. I am not at all sure that Trowgood, hearing what was going on, did not give father a hint that it was best to wait. Anyway we did wait.
I think this waiting-time was a good thing for us. At least, I know it was good for me; and I suppose it might have been good for the others too, if they had been willing. For of course one must be willing, before anything can do one good in life; and father and mother were not willing. Father never seemed to think of any part of the matter as coming straight from God. All he talked about was Jem Morison and the lawyers—and very hotly he did talk at times.
But, as I say, the waiting was good, or it ought to have been goad. It gave us leisure for thought, and for getting over the first excitement of the news. It's well to be able to sift and weigh a matter, before having to take action. To be sure, father had acted already, as regarded the things bought; but still in some measure his hands had been tied, and now they were tied yet more.
One Sunday afternoon grannie and I were sitting together, having our tea. The other three had been to dinner with the Raikes', and were not back yet: so we were afraid there must be some sort of Sunday excursion as well as dinner. Grannie and I had been having a nice quiet afternoon together, and grannie seemed tired, so I got the tea for her earlier than usual, and we had the kettle boiling in good time.
"If they don't come soon, they won't be in time for Church," I said.
"Not for the first time," grannie answered, and she spoke in a sad sort of way. "I'm sore afraid of its being a habit that will grow. It's wonderful how anything of a bad habit does grow. Just let it alone like a weed, and it's sure to sprout. I suppose good habits go against the grain, for they do take a deal of tending."
"But father was brought up to Church-going," I said.
"Yes, yes, he was brought up to it. There wasn't anything a-wanting in the bringing-up, so far as I know. But though a mother's bringing-up can do a lot, it can't put God's grace into a man's heart. It can't do that."
"Father always used to like so much to go to Church," I said.
"He liked to please his old mother, Phœbe," said she. "That's what it was—not so much of liking the worship of God for its own sake. I'd sooner it had been that—more hope of its lasting, if it had. But the pleasing of his old mother isn't so much to him now. He's got little thought or care save for his five thousand pounds—which mayn't ever be his really neither."
"Do you think it won't come to us, grannie?" I asked, and I couldn't help longing that it might.
"I don't think either way," said she. "It may or it mayn't. I've no manner of means of knowing whether Andrew Morison was in his right senses or no. If it does come it'll be a solemn trust from God; and I'm sorely afraid lest it should be squandered away with no thought at all of Him in the spending."
"Mother was talking again yesterday about going into a bigger house," I said. "She does want it so, grannie; and father is quite set on five hundred a year, and not only two hundred."
"Well, you nor I can't check him," she said. "But this cottage is mine, and it shan't be sold while I live. If they go, I'll stay on here and work for myself. It's little I should want. I'm too old for settling into a new home at my time of life. I've been thirty years and more here, and please God I'll stay till I die."
"O grannie! I hope if they go they'll let me live with you," I said.
"No," she answered, "that isn't likely. They'll want you to work for them—without they're going to set up grand, and have servants like gentlefolks. I'd believe in pretty near any sort of folly. But, there—I'm forgetting—that's no sort of manner to speak in to you about them. You're but a child, and you've got to do as you are told."
"But if we live in another house away from you—and if they tell me to do things that are wrong! O grannie! do come with us," I cried; and I turned and caught hold of her dress, and held it fast. "It's only you that can keep us straight."
"Only me!" said she.
And she sat looking before her, not at me but at something which I could not see, as it were, and a sort of glow came into her face, as it was wont to do, once in a way. And I cried again, holding her tightly still, "O grannie! don't let us be apart. Everything will go wrong in the new house, if you won't come there with us."
"You're right and you're wrong, Phœbe," she said at last, arousing herself and fixing her eyes upon me. "You're wrong and you're right. Yes—wrong. For it isn't I that can keep you straight—you nor any of them. I,—why I can't keep myself, much less other folks! It's God that can keep you straight, and none other."
Then, after a little pause, she went on—
"But you're right too, and I see it now. I can't keep you right, but maybe God would use me. It's little enough I could do; but what if He wants me to do that little? Yes—I see now. I've been clinging in thought to the old home—and I do cling, and I love the very walls and boards; and a new home at my time of life would be nigh a heart-break to me, after all the years and years I've lived here, first with your grandfather, and then with your father. But I've been forgetting to ask what was the right thing for me to do. It isn't sense for me to cling more to boards and rafters than to living flesh and blood. And after all, you'll need me more than the old home will. It's a dear old home to me, Phœbe. But love may be selfish, and I think mine has been so. I'll have to keep stricter watch for the future. And if you all go, I'll come too. Maybe it'll not be for long—that's as God wills. But I'll not leave you to fight on alone, till God calls me—and then I'll have no choice, and I'll be content to leave the rest to Him. So we'll go all together, Phœbe. Will that set your mind at rest, child?"
"O grannie! it's all I wanted," I said. "Everything's sure to go straight now."
But she shook her head and said, "It's the old old story,—leaning on a broken reed. I suppose it isn't till the reed gives way under us, that we turn to lean on God."